


Promoted to Head

by Drowsy_Salamander



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cannon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Graphic Description, I intend to make it count, I say that but only because this is a different way for jon to learn about Jonah, Like there shall be no affecting the main plot, No beta we kayak like Tim, Sad, Set Mid-Season 4, Simon gets to be excited by space!, dreaming of the past, episode 158 spoilers, i cant believe i am the first person to use the Richard Mendelson tag, i do describe someone having their eyes torn out, i think its sad, look i just have a lot of feelings about Oglias, of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drowsy_Salamander/pseuds/Drowsy_Salamander
Summary: Jon has been dreaming. This in of itself isn't unusual, most people dream but these dreams have been ... different. Even different from his usual Eye nightmares. When Jon falls asleep, he keeps seeing the past, specifically the past Institute Heads and as he watches, he begins to learn why the Magnus Institute has been so unchanged from what its founder had intended.--------Jon witnesses various vignettes of the previous Heads of the Institute before they were 'promoted'.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/James Wright, It's Only Implied - Relationship
Comments: 35
Kudos: 44





	1. Elias Bouchard

**Author's Note:**

> I just have many emotions about Oglias.

Jon was dreaming. When he was younger, he barely dreamed and even when he did, he never lucid dreamt but recently he has become far, far too aware when he was asleep. But this wasn’t his normal, and god did he hate how those dreams had become ‘normal’, horrifying Eye dreams. It also wasn’t a normal dream, it was too clear, sharp. It lacked the warm, fuzziness human dreams had.

Jon recognised the place as the alley at the back of the Institute. He knew people came out here to smoke once or twice and indeed, there was a man lighting a cigarette. There was a thick layer of fog that swirled around the man’s legs and he was shaking. Jon walked closer to get a better look at the man. It was Elias. Jon had to push back the instinctive desire to punch the man in the face. He was younger than last Jon saw him, his suit cheap and ruffled and his hair longer and more unkempt and he was crying. Elias Bouchard was crying. It’s truly bizarre to see him in what appears to be such a state of vulnerability. Everything about this is weird as far as Jon can tell but he will take weird dreams about Elias Bouchard over terrorising statement givers any night.

The door to the Institute opened and another man came out. He was about the same height as Elias but far broader. He was dressed crisply and his black hair looked as though he spent at least an hour grooming it. “Elias, are you quite alright?”

Elias looked up at him through bleary eyes and smiled in something like relief. “James.”

James walked over to him and put his hand gently on Elias’ shoulder. “Elias, I’m worried about you.”

“Has my work not been satisfactory?” Elias said, halfway between a giggle and a sob.

“Elias, you know I care about you more than your work.” James said delicately. “You’re more than just another employee.” Jon realised with a small start that this must be James Wright, the Head of the Magnus Institute before Elias.

“I- thank you.” Elias whispered, looking away from Wright. “I just… It’s hard to know- it’s hard to know if someone really cares about you until it’s suddenly too late and then you’ll never know.”

“Elias, tell me what’s the matter.” Wright implored.

“It’s nothing. Really I shouldn’t bother you.” Elias curled up into himself, away from the rest of humanity.

“Elias, I want to know.” Wright said.

“My brother died.” Elias said flatly and then started crying again, dropping his cigarette to the ground. Wright pulled him in close to him and ran his hand through Elias’ hair. “We- we weren’t even close. I hadn’t talked to him in years, why didn’t I? He was such an insufferable dick and now he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you. Death is cruel.” Wright murmured. Elias pulled away from him, wiping his eyes.

“Um, sorry for that. I’ll try not to cry all over you again.”

“Elias, you know I care about your well-being,” Wright said, “really, a vaguely damp shirt is a very low price to pay.”

“Well,” Elias said, bringing himself under control, “it’s a rather nice shirt.”

Wright laughed. “That it is. I’ve always had a taste for the finer things in life.” Elias chuckled, looking vaguely embarrassed. Jon was struck by just how damn young Elias looked. Consciously, Jon knew that this Elias was probably the same age as himself but he just looked so much more… vulnerable? Naïve?

“Do you need time off for the funeral, or to grieve?” Wright asked.

“No,” Elias said quietly. “The funeral was last Sunday.” Wright said nothing, waiting for Elias to continue. “It was… it was a good funeral, I guess. Lot’s of people there. Everyone ready to talk about how bloody wonderful he was.” Elias paused. “He’d been engaged… and I didn’t even know. I had t _o ask my sister who the woman was_. When I die…” Elias started and then stopped, his face crumpling like paper to be thrown in a bin. “When I die, who’ll be at my funeral? Would anyone even care?”

He turned to Wright, looking for something from the man. The need for Wright to say something, do something, to see Elias was almost painful in its desperation and earnestness. Wright placed a hand on Elias’ shoulder and leaned in towards him. “Elias, you are very important to me.” Jon could feel the weight of Wright’s stare, seeing everything into Elias. It was heavy, scooping out Elias and hanging him out for perusal. Elias stared up at him with so much feeling, Jon felt vaguely indecent watching. This was all too personal and he really did not want to watch this. That was probably the point of the dream though, he thought bitterly. Still if this was a dream made by the Eye, he’d still prefer it to other Eye dreams.

“I should probably go back to work, shouldn’t I?” Wright let out a small chuckle that rang uneasily in Jon’s ears. “If you wish to.” Elias laughed and walked over to the door.

“Oh, Elias?” Elias turned around to look back at Wright.

“Yes, James?” “Dinner tonight?” Wright asked.

Elias’s face broke momentarily into a genuine smile before reconfiguring into a careless smirk as though he had never been vulnerable just minutes before. “If you wish to.”

“I’ll pick you up at half seven then.” Wright said. Elias nodded and left, no longer hunched over in despair, something almost like happiness filling him.

Wright smiled at Elias as he left. Once he was through the door, Wright waited a second before slowly walking over to the door and closing it firmly. “I don’t appreciate you trying to poach my employees, Lukas.” He said turning around.

Jon followed his line of sight to where the fog that had been creeping along the ground was bulging and swirling until a man stepped out. “You can hardly blame me when they’re practically drowning in loneliness. Really, it’s like presenting a fire with gasoline.”

“Peter, I know this is the first time you’ve had to act as representative for the family,” Wright said in a too level voice, “but it is generally considered rather poor form to feed off someone who under the person you are attempting business with.”

Jon stared at the other man, apparently the elusive Peter Lukas. He was tall, taller than Wright, and broad, with rather mousy hair and the beginnings of beard. He looked almost too normal except for his incredibly pale eyes. They were so empty, leaving his face to look more like a mask than some of the Stranger’s people. “Really I doubt you’d miss him. You have so many people.” Peter Lukas grimaced in disgust.

“Yes, but that one is going to be rather, hmmm, useful.” Wright glanced back at the door.

Lukas looked carefully at Wright. “He’s rather pretty, isn’t he?”

“Quite.” Wright agreed. Jon stared agape at both men. This conversation was uncomfortable to listen to an entirely different way.

“I should’ve guessed you were the kind to care about aesthetics.” Lukas snorted. “But I still think you ought to let us have him. He’d find his way into the Lonely without any help.”

“Peter, do you really want me to tell Nathaniel about how childish you’re being?” Wright said. “I have made a simple request and if you decide to ignore it, the result could be… unpleasant.” He smiled in the same way a leopard would.

“Fine, fine,” Lukas threw his hands up, “if he’s really that important to whatever master plan the Eye has, I’ll leave him alone.”

“A wise decision.” Wright kept smiling his thin, smug smile. “Now would you care to have our meeting in my office or is the proximity to other humans too much for you?”

Lukas sighed. “Fine. You’ll be insufferable if we don’t, won’t you? Really I don’t know why Nathaniel thinks this place is worth all the money.”

“If you’ll follow me Mr. Lukas.” Wright said gesturing to the door. Lukas side and followed him inside.

Jon woke up.

He squinted up at his ceiling as light trickled in through his cheap blinds. What the hell was that? Why had he dreamt about Elias of all things? Well, at least he now knew what Peter Lukas actually looked like.


	2. James Wright

Jon did not tell anyone about the dream. Who would he tell? Basira would probably just say it was a normal dream, trying to talk to Melanie about anything involving Elias was just a violent explosion waiting to happen and as for Martin… Martin just couldn’t be found. A ghost haunting Jon. Jon really missed him. So no, Jon hadn’t mentioned the weirdly clear dream to anyone, in fact he was fairly sure it had just been something his sleep deprived brain had created for unknown reasons.

Except now he was having another dream like it. Too crisp and real to be anything his brain could project, details and lighting that Jon would never notice or think of where everywhere. He remember reading somewhere that the human brain can’t create new faces, that those who populate dreams were people that the dreamer had seen before, and if that was true then Jon was even more convinced that these weren’t normal dreams. The crowd surrounding him was full of people Jon would swear he had never seen before, dressed in fashion Jon had never heard of.

Nonetheless, Jon still recognised where he was. The Long Hall was the most opulent part of the Institute. While most of the Institute was old and rich, patterned in dark green and brass, the Long Hall’s polished floor and small chandeliers really pushed it from ‘old’ to ‘fancy’. The Long Hall was typically unused, a fact that had seriously irritated Sasha (“There’s a massive space and we’re just not using it! Meanwhile, Research has two people to a desk.”), but it was always the space used for parties, donor galas or Christmas celebrations, all held in the Long Hall. Judging from the decor, it wasn’t hard to see what kind of party this was.

A long banner was hung over one wall declaring ‘ _Celebrating the Magnus Institute’s 150 th Anniversary 1818-1968’. _There were tables pushed to the side covered in trays of fancy finger foods, canapés and shrimps on sticks. Champagne flutes were being passed around by waiters and a temporary bar had been set up in one corner. In the opposite corner, a small band was playing music Jon could only describe as groovy that some people were dancing to. It was in short, an overly produced, overly fancy affair.

Huddling over by a wall, on the outskirts of the party, Jon spotted James Wright. He was younger than in the last dream, his black hair thick and his frame more filled out. He glowering at his drink. A woman in a neat polka-dot dress walked over to him purposefully.

“James.” she acknowledged as she settled next to him.

“Matilda.” James said.

“So, are you intending on glaring until the party is over?” Matilda asked.

“I don’t know _why_ Mendelson asked for me to be here.” James snapped. “It’s a waste of my time.”

“You don’t know why Mr. Mendelson wants to show off his new secretary?” Matilda asked. “Really, James, stop being so terribly dense.”

“Yes, I know he wants to ‘show off the Institute staff at its finest’,” the quote dripped with distaste. “but it I have better things to be doing.”

"This party really does interrupt your scheduled 'being angry at people' time." Matilda said lightly. 

"I just hate these kind of things." James snapped. "I hate having to be here and play nice with all these people who've got silver spoons stuck so far up themselves they can't even see it anymore. I just don't want to be here." 

“Oh, would you stop complaining.” Matilda said, suddenly sharp. James looked at her surprised. “You haven’t stopped complaining since you got that promotion.”

“I don’t want to be just a secretary.” James said.

Matilda took a long drink of her own champagne then turned to James. “You’re behaving like a child. You get a promotion to a good job with a good pay and then complain that it’s not the job you wanted. You didn’t have to accept if you really hated it so much.”

“I felt like I had no choice.” James muttered.

“At least you had no choice in getting a better job, I’ll never rise above my current job and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Matilda said. “You can leave the Institute, or try for a transfer, I don’t get those options.” She took another sip of her drink. "So would you stop throwing yourself your little pity party and grow up?"

“Matilda,” James started, paused and then pushed forward. “I know you would be a better personal secretary than I am. I know you’re more qualified. I’m… I’m sorry you didn’t get the job.”

“Don’t apologise,” Matilda sighed. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you.”

“Apology accepted.” James said. The two stood in silence, quietly drinking and watching the rest of the party.

“We sure are a pair, aren’t we?” Matilda said finally. “Angry at the whole world.”

James snorted. “Oh no, I doubt any of my anger can hold a flame to yours.”

“Is it so wrong I want the world to fit me?” Matilda’s grip tightened on her glass.

James looked at her with a complicated expression. “The world would never be able to contain you. You’re so much _more._ ”

Matilda smiled slightly and looked back at James. “Thank you.” She said quietly. “You’re a better man than you seem to think you are.”

James said nothing, staring out into the party.

“We should dance.”

“What? No.” James said quickly.

“Are you afraid, James Wright?” Matilda inclined her head, eyebrows raised.

“Never.” James said too quickly.

“Then dance with me.” Matilda said, mouth quirking upwards in amusement. James opened his mouth to say something then closed it again and swallowed. “Then I’ll make some excuse as to why you had to leave early. Sudden food poisoning?”

“Matilda…” James started; gratitude clear below his grumpiness.

“Don’t go telling anyone about this, I have a reputation to maintain.” Matilda said lightly. “Can’t let anyone think I actually care about you.”

“We wouldn’t want that.” James agreed and looked at her fondly. “Matilda?”

“Yes?” Matilda asked, all sharp eyes.

“Would you care to dance with me?” James asked, putting his drink down on a table beside them and extending a hand.

Matilda eyes him up and down playfully, “Why, Mr. Wright, I do accept,” and took his hand.

The pair swept out to where the other dancers were. If you didn’t look closely it would appear James was leading. Jon could easily see that Matilda was the one in charge of their dance. It was… strange watching them dance. Jon tried to compare this rather prickly man to the callous one in his other dream and it was jarring. It was especially jarring when watching him seem to be shyly affectionate with Matilda.

Jon’s gaze shifted off the possible couple and onto a very tall, thin man sipping his champagne. He was dressed expensively but what caught Jon’s eye was his damn eye shaped tie clip. He had to be associated with the Ceaseless Watcher. He was in a conversation with two men. One was a tiny, old man with deep wrinkles and a cane tucked under an arm. The other man was very pale with a neat white beard who seemed to be trying to fade into the background.

“… and just the potential of it all.” The old man was saying. “Next year they’re planning on going up to the moon. It’s incredible stuff. Humanity is finally opening up what’s beyond the sky.”

“I can’t imagine that’s beneficial to you,” the man with the eye tie clip said, swirling his champagne, “increased knowledge and understanding. Would that not make things for more difficult for your patron?”

“Oh no, not all young man.” The old man said brightly, the pale man looked slightly amused by this while the eye-tie clip man seemed rather annoyed at being called young. “Sometimes the knowledge of the vastness is just the push people need to become scared of it. You’d know about that, eh Richard? Knowledge enhancing fear?”

The eye tie clip man, presumably Richard, smiled smugly and was about to gloat when the pale man interrupted him. “This is a terribly inane conversation. Technological progress is nothing to our patrons.”

“I think it’s rather useful.” the old man hummed. “Samuel, are you finding this conversation difficult?”

Richard gave a rather nasty smile to the pale man. “I understand, Lukas, if such a, ahem, _social_ event is difficult for you.”

“You should open the windows,” quipped the old man. “Let Samuel bring in all that fog. It’ll comfort him.”

“I did not come to be mocked.” Samuel Lukas said coldly. “And I would think, Richard, that you would be more polite, considering your fondness for my money.” Jon could hardly claim to be surprised learning that this man was one of the Lukases. There was a certain chill about him and his pallor was decidedly unnatural.

“This rather is my night,” Richard said amiably, “I’d appreciate it if you indulged me. 150 years is a rather fine achievement.” Samuel rolled his eyes while the old man said something about 150 years being nothing in the grand scheme of things. “I think I’ve done a rather good job.”

“I’m sure the Eye loves you.” Samuel said blandly.

“I would never dare to presume my patron’s intention.” Richard said. “Even if I may soon need a change.”

“That’s where that new secretary comes in, yes?” The old man said, bouncing on the balls of his feet and trying to catch one of the waiters’ eye.

“Rather,” Richard said looking over to where James Wright and Matilda were dancing. “I think he’ll be suitable.”

“Had your _eye_ on him, Richard?” the old man said and Jon thought he looked far too delighted with the pun than he really ought to.

Apparently, Richard agreed with Jon as he rolled his eyes. “Simon, that joke wasn’t funny the first time you said it and it certainly isn’t _now._ ”

“He’s lonely.” Samuel said suddenly.

Richard glared at him. “He is rather isolated but he is not Lonely. He is deeply curious, already serving my patron admirably—”

“And he’s got a girl.” Simon _Fairchild _pointed out, tipping his head in the direction of the couple. “It’s hard to be Lonely when you’re in love.__

____

“I doubt she’ll remain too much longer.” Richard said darkly. Simon and Samuel looked at Richard. “Oh, working in the Archives can be so _dangerous_.”

____

“Wouldn’t want the next Institute Head to have anyone to miss them.” Samuel finished his champagne. “I’ll send a letter regarding the Lukas family’s next donation. Expect it on your desk in two days.” And then he walked out of the room, the crowd parting around him as people subconsciously needed to avoid him.

____

“Do you think he has a timer for how long he can be social before he has to leave?” Simon asked, amused.

____

“I have no idea, but he’s rather more resilient than most Lukases.” Richard tipped his head to the side in a gesture that was so familiar to Jon yet so infuriating because he couldn’t think where he’d seen it before. “But on the subject of donations…”

____

“Oh, no,” Simon said “I have no intention of putting money towards the Ceaseless Watcher.”

____

“Come now, Simon,” Richard said magnanimously. “Would an alliance not benefit the Vast?”

____

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Simon hummed. “ultimately I doubt it would help much and I believe there are better investments to be made. No offense to your pet project but really I prefer our current business relationship.”

____

“Meeting up every decade to play cards with whichever Lukas is in charge?” Richard said.

____

“Precisely, now I really do want to talk about NASA, really this whole Cold War nonsense has been great for business, I’ve gotten at least two new members of the family from their involvement in these new satellites. Did you see Sputnik? Simply marvelous, why I believe…” Simon seemed perfectly happy to keep rambling even as Richard’s attention turned away from him, back to watching James Wright, a rather sinister smile draped on his face.

____

The world fell away and Jon opened his eyes. Once was just a dream, twice was something more. He’d have to try to find any information to help him. There was must be some statement or _something_ at the Institute to tell him just what was going on. He also wanted- _needed _to know what had happened to Matilda. He really didn't know anything about the previous Institute employees, nothing about Archivists before Gertrude or their assistants or what happened to them. That would be where he started his research, Jon decided.__

____

____

____

____

____

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I really like Simon Fairchild?  
> Also I got really attached to Matilda, only had her five minutes and I already love her.
> 
> Comments and kudoses are very much appreciated.


	3. Richard Mendelson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun fact, when I looked up the surname Mendelson, I found it was very common amongst jewish people in east Germany/west Poland and that if Jonah's bodies lasted about 30 years, that brings Mr. Richard Mendelson's promotion to being in the early forties/late thirties. So there are oblique references to the persecution of the jews in Nazi Germany and there is a character who expresses positive sentiment towards Nazi Germany. So be warned.
> 
> Also this is the point where we run out cannon names for Institute Heads so this one includes Henry Farthington, a complete OC, as the Institute Head.

Jon hefted the files onto his desk. Rosie had been rather confused by his request for the old employee records dating all the way back to the fifties, but she’d complied. It had taken her a few days to source them all and she warned Jon to be careful with the documents. Jon had nodded and given her some vague reassurances before taking them down to the Archives.

Jon sorted out the Archive files and began to flick through them. They were organised by the most recent hire. Jon skipped quickly through Basira, Melanie, Martin, he didn’t look at Tim’s. Sasha’s caught his attention however as he saw her date of termination. The 29th of July, 2016. Jon felt something that would’ve been fury if he wasn’t so tired. That was the date of Jane Prentiss’ attack what felt like a decade ago, the date of Sasha’s death and replacement and it was just here, blatantly sitting in her records. Because of course Elias had known. He’d known and simply let not-Sasha sit in her desk. Jon glared at the picture of not-Sasha on the file and wished he could remember what the real Sasha looked like. Jon moved on before he got too angry.

His own records held little interest to him and he moved on to Gertrude’s assistants. He didn’t really know much about any of them. Sarah Carpenter was apparently Gertrude’s last assistant, or at least last hired assistant. Jon stared at the picture of the slightly squinting woman. Her file also listed her as being terminated, died in other words. Jon could feel a pressure at the back of his head, the Eye trying to gift him knowledge but Jon didn’t want to Know. He could hardly deny his curiosity but he pushed it back and turned the page.

Michael Shelley’s smile greeted Jon. Jon sighed as he stared at this future monster. He looked so young in the photo. For the sake of completeness, Jon looked down and yes ‘terminated employment on the 5th of February, 2010’. Well, he now had a date for the Great Twisting, if that was ever something he’d wanted. Jon glanced at when Michael was hired. He then stared at it before looking at the date of birth provided. Jon leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He’d been 17 when he joined the Archives.

Jon just decided to hurry through the other Archive workers until he found Matilda. If Matilda existed. In the cold light of day, it was so much easier to believe that his dreams were just dreams even if he Knew they weren’t. If he found evidence of Matilda, a woman he’d never so much of heard of before, then that would be it. They were real. Jon passed through Gertrude’s file, although he did note to his amusement, several HR complaints stapled to it, and then passed Fiona Law, Harold Sikes and then Matilda Carrol.

Real. Born 1936, hired 1959, terminated 1970. Jon let out a breath through his nose. So, that was confirmation about the dreams. Whatever they were, they were accurate. He had no idea what was causing them. The Eye? The Web? He was pretty sure it wasn’t Elias; Jon couldn’t imagine what potential benefit he could get from it. It also probably wasn’t Peter Lukas, not that Jon could say for sure. He’d still never met the man and couldn’t begin to guess his motivations but Jon doubted weird dreams of the past would come under the power of the Lonely. So that left the Web? Maybe? There was no way for Jon to know.

Unless… he could try Knowing. Jon reached towards the door in his mind and then recoiled. Trying to open it just a crack wasn’t possible. If he did so, he would be utterly consumed by the Knowledge.

…

Jon was in Elias’ office. Except it wasn’t Elias office, not yet anyway. It was missing some of the knickknacks and decorations that Jon had grown use to but it was remarkably static. The shelves had different contents but were the same. There was a different carpet on the floor and the walls had wall paper rather than being painted but the colour scheme was still the same. Even that weird skull was still sitting on a shelf, tucked behind books. It was a little unnerving just how similar it was. It was missing the computer and the light bulbs were weaker but it seemed as though that was only a matter of time.

There were two men in the office with him.

Behind the desk sat a broad man with a thick moustache. The suit he was wearing was expensive and well-tailored yet it didn’t seem to quite suit his body. There was a disconnect between the man’s sense of style and his figure. Jon presumed this was the head of the Institute. What was his name? Jon resolved to look up the past-Institute heads when he was awake again. He was sick of not knowing names going into these dreams.

The man sitting on a chair facing the desk caused Jon to do a doubletake. He was wearing a military uniform and had honest to god mutton chops, the bushy kind that branch away from the face and are connected to a thick moustache that seems to be trying to eat the owner’s lips. He seemed to be on the tail end of middle age, with a lined face and a cane tucked beside his chair. Still he hardly seemed incumbered, sitting leisurely while puffing on a cigar.

“Very exciting business old friend, _very_ exciting.” The military man said. “The war machine is revving up nicely.”

The Institute head raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning on going to Asia then?”

“Oh, Henry,” the military man said, “don’t feign ignorance, it hardly suits you. You and I know full well the fighting is coming to our doorstops. It’ll be a grand old time. I’m jolly excited.” He winked at the other man.

Henry paused, considering his words. “I am aware of the… rising tensions but I do not keep too close an eye on _human_ politics, regardless I thought this was some machinations for your ritual, Gladstone.”

“Now, now, Henry,” Gladstone wagged his finger, “you know I cannot tell you that, old friend. Ritual business is all very hush, hush.”

Henry let out a small sound of amusement. “And I’m sure you have no influence over this policy.”

“No idea what you could possibly mean.” Gladstone smiled.

“I’m sure, General of the Bloodshed.” Henry said sardonically and Gladstone smiled around his cigar, teeth bright. It seemed to be some kind of joke between them but Jon was fairly certain at this point that Gladstone was an avatar of the Slaughter.

“Ah Henry, there’s always a war somewhere. I hardly need to get into everyone’s business. Why, if I wanted to manipulate events, I would have turned to the Web or your lot.”

“Just because you’re not causing the fighting hardly means you will not be taking advantage of it.” Henry said.

“Well, Henry, just between the two of us and our patrons, momentum has been building. Now, I shan’t give you any more knowledge, old friend, but there are some jolly exciting plans in the works.” Gladstone said conspiratorially and then leaned back, puffing on his cigar.

Henry nodded vaguely in acknowledgement but Jon could easily see he was filing away that information away for very useful future use. He then looked up rather suddenly and gave a small smile. “Ah, Gladstone, someone I’d like you to meet is approaching my office.”

“Ready to introduce me to one of your boys?” Gladstone puffed. “Normally you keep me far away from them.”

“Because half the time they end up dead.”

“They died for King and country,” Gladstone’s tone was deeply sardonic, “military service is very good for character development.”

Henry glared at him. “Yes, well, Mr. Mendelson is completely out of limits.”

There was a knock on the door. Henry took a second to give Gladstone another glare before calling out “Yes, do come in.”

The door handle twisted and Richard Mendelson stepped through. He wore his height more uncertainly than he had in Jon’s previous dream, appearing gangly rather than imposing. His curls were a rich brown and were far longer. He seemed tired, not from a lack of sleep, although there were bags under his eyes, but in the way someone who’s spent too long worrying over something. Emotionally tired. “Oh, Mr. Farthington, I did not realise you had company.”

“Ah, Mr. Mendelson,” Farthington said. “This is General William Gladstone. He’s a servant of the Slaughter. William, this is Richard Mendelson, the head librarian of the Magnus Institute and my future successor.”

Richard Mendelson swallowed then squared his shoulders and leaned forward to shake Gladstone’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“I’m sure it isn’t old chap but it’s kind of you to say so,” Gladstone laughed as he crushed Richard’s hand. “Now, is that a German accent I hear?”

“I—” Richard’s eyes flicked to Farthington who offered no help. “Yes, I am German.”

“Ah, I’m very fond of the Germans.” Gladstone said jovially. “A great nation, why I wanted to shake the Kaiser’s hand after the Great War. Such a grand old show.”

“I—”

“They’re doing some very exciting things now. It’s going to be jolly good fun once it all gets started.” Gladstone barrelled on. “I wonder what shiny new trick shall dominate this war. You know, I have my money on those tanks, you must have seen them down in Spain. Beautiful machines, elegant, truly magnificent. Of course, I do have a certain fondness for the gases.”

“If you say so.” Richard said, disgust poorly hidden in his voice.

Gladstone threw back his head and laughed. “Not got a stomach for the good fight then, eh?”

“I can not say violence has ever appealed to me, General.” Richard said, picking his words carefully.

“More content to stand back and watch it all like the rest of the chaps here,” Gladstone said, “now, now, no need to pull that face. You seem like a nice chap, I'd say. This transition shall probably be less fun then.”

“What do you mean?” Richard asked.

“Oh! Did Henry not tell you?” Gladstone said, delighted to share what he knew as Farthington’s face twisted. “Well, old chap, good old Whitechurch was found utterly butchered in his office, Henry too was terribly injured. The story was that a Hunter had rushed in, am I right, Henry?”

“Yes, there was a Hunter.” Farthington looked down at his desk, from on his face. “I’ll admit, Mr. Whitechurch had grown complacent.”

“Well I should say rightly so!” puffed Gladstone, “letting a Hunter into a place of power, interrupting the transfer. I must say old friend, it’s bad form, bad form in deed.”

“That is in the past,” Farthington said and cast an approving eye over to Richard, “Mr. Mendelson will ensure a far smoother transition, I imagine.”

Richard smiled weakly at him giving a half shrug. “I will do my best.”

“I’m sure you’ll do swimmingly, old chap.” Gladstone clapped Richard on the back and then began to leave. “Well, Henry, it was jolly good seeing you again, always a pleasure, old chap.”

“I imagine I won’t be seeing you for some time now?” Farthington asked.

“Ah, I think not. I’m going to be proper busy with that whole business off in China. It’ll be a grand old show.” Gladstone smiled. “I’ve never had the chance to go to the Orient, I’m rather excited.”

“Visiting colleagues?” Farthington shook Gladstone’s hand as he asked.

Gladstone smiled coldly. “Ah, now, old friend, that would be telling.” The two locked eyes in a grim competition to see who would break first, hands clasped, smoke wafting up from Gladstone’s cigar. Eventually Gladstone let go, turning to Richard who looked distinctly nervous. “Mr. Mendelson, very nice to be properly introduced to you. Henry.” He nodded to them both in turn and then marched out, boots making a drumbeat. Richard stared at the door after it swung behind him, swallowing faintly.

“So, Mr. Mendelson,” Farthington said, snapping Richard back to the present, “what was it you came to discuss with me?”

“It… it is not important.” Richard stuttered.

“Nonsense, anything you have to say to you me is important.” Farthington dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I am always willing to speak with you.”

“I was only intending…” Richard hesitated, “it is a foolish question.”

“Richard,” Farthington said gently. “Tell me.”

“My parents, I have not heard from them in some months and I am afraid for them.” Richard said, trying to control his voice. “I know that they are not being treated well, I know they are in danger but they will not answer my letters. I am scared that something has happened to them.”

“You’re afraid that you cannot interfere with their plight, simple watch as it happens?” Farthington asked, leaning forwards imperceptibly. Jon thought he looked faintly hungry but mostly delighted as though he’d just seen a very elaborate and well-done fruit sculpture.

“ _Yes.”_ Richard’s voice cracked. “I was hoping, Mr. Farthington, I know you have been very kind to me, I know it is much to ask, but if you could help them? It does not need to be supernatural help. Even to just sponsor their asylum.”

“Mr. Mendelson, I will try to assist where I can but I do not know if I will be able to interfere.” Farthington said in a very good impression of sadness. “But I will see what I am able to do.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.” Richard said, the hope filling his voice almost painful to Jon’s ears. Jon was very certain that Farthington would never act to help the man’s parents. Far more interesting to watch what happens.

“So, what did you think of Gladstone?” Farthington asked him, curious.

“I can not say I care for the General.” Richard said darkly.

“You find his fondness to violence unsettling?” Farthington said.

“Yes.” Richard said immediately. “Very. He… he takes great joy in the potential bloodshed, not even that which he would cause but any violence and destruction. Such a man is not one I can approve of.”

“Gladstone would delight in few things more than shelling a city, that is true.” Farthington said. “You wonder why I associate with such a man?”

“I know you do deals with many such servants of different en-entities.” Richard paused, trying to find the words he wanted, frustrated. “I know it is a needed friendship and yet I do not … I do not like it and I do not care for them. Them who draw power from others’ suffering and seek only to propagate it.”

“I know.” Farthington said. “And that is what the Institute is for, to catalogue and learn about the fears.”

“I want to help people, not do deals with their monsters.” Richard said determined. Jon stared at the man and felt something like loss. He was such an idealist, someone who cared about people beyond those he immediately knew. He wanted to do good for everyone. Jon felt a pang, he’s felt the same way once. When had that stopped? When had life beaten Jon down so much that he could no longer bring himself to help a stranger simply because it was the right thing to do. Jon still cared, still wanted to help but he just couldn’t care like that. Not anymore. And judging from the last dream Jon had, Richard Mendelson clearly stopped caring at some point. When? Was it before his promotion when he learnt that he too, served a monster, or was it after decades of trying to do good with the Institute only to eventually cave to the Eye? Jon couldn’t help but feel he was watching a tragedy.

Farthington chuckled like his pet dog had just done a rather nice backflip. “When you are the Head of the Magnus Institute, if you still have such thoughts, be my guest to make the changes. Still it will hardly harm you to be familiar with other avatars.”

“Unless one of them decides to leave me in fog again?” Richard said in a tone that was meant to be light.

Farthington clucked his tongue. “Yes, I am very angry at Elliot Lukas for that slight.”

“Mr. Farthington?” Richard asked after a pause.

“Hmm?” Farthington hummed.

“When you became the head of the Institute, did… have you done what you wanted to?” Richard asked.

Farthington hesitated before answering. “It was never my plan to gain control of the Institute from Mr. Whitechurch and it was a tad messy a changeover, circumstances forced my hand. This is why I’m coaching you so carefully, I want things to be easier when you need to become the one behind the desk. You will be splendid.” He smiled at Richard who nodded back.

“Right.”

“Well, Mr. Mendelson, if that is everything?”

“Yes, sir. I will go now then.” Richard said walking back to the door. He moved just by Jon which allowed him to hear what he said quietly in Yiddish. The Eye helpfully translated it for Jon so he could hear Richard say “ _You never answered the question, sir_ ” before he left the room.

Farthington stared at the door Richard had walked through before turning to the portrait on the wall. It was one of the many portraits of Jonah Magnus that littered the Institute. Farthington smiled at it. “He’s coming along nicely, I think. Very suitable indeed.”

Jon woke up. These sudden awakenings were starting to get on his nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, I bring in random OCs and get attached. General William Gladstone is a fave of mine. Very old timey, british general, just the worst. One of the major architects of the Risen War which is what he keeps dancing about with Farthington and when it failed, he died. I just feel that every era must have had some really fun avatars who didn't survive so we never got a chance to hear about them.
> 
> Also I just really wanted a scene where Jon goes through the Institute employee files and just misses the fact Eric quit.


	4. Henry Farthington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Sorry about the, oh jeez, nearly two month gap. I got distracted by other projects, my main fic is taking up quite a lot of my time and there are one or two other things that I'm working on. Still, it's here now!

The Magnus Institute was an overly ornate building. This was most evident in the portraits that littered the building. Hell, there was even a bust in the library. The hallway that lead to Elias’ office (well, it was no longer Elias’ office but it was still so drenched in him that it was hard to think of it as anyone else’s) was covered in portraits. Dead men stared out in a procession, the past Institute Heads. A photograph of Elias was at the far end of the hall, Jon wondered if there had been any debate about removing the murderer’s picture.

Jon stared at the portraits, ignoring Elias’ rather mocking smile. He walked past the pale James Wright and the smirking Richard Mendelson but paused once he reached Henry Farthington. Farthington seemed to break the pattern, older than most of the other heads upon first appointment and also the only one with a radically different build. A strange coincidence that three heads in a row were tall and slender. What was also strange, Jon thought, was how similar all the past Institute directors’ sense of style was. Jon would be the first to admit he knew nothing about fashion but still, they all seemed to favour pinstriped suits, the colour green and gold buttons or jewellery.

Jon looked at the last two portraits, Dorian Whitechurch and Jonah Magnus. There were a lot of portraits of Jonah Magnus all over the Institute. Most employees were deeply familiar with his triangular face and rather deep-set eyes. Dorian Whitechurch, on the other hand, had only this portrait just like all the others. It was the first time Jon had seen him and he was struck by the man’s resemblance to Jonah Magnus. They both had the same blonde hair, high cheekbones and pointed chin. And, of course, they shared the same general fashion sense as all the other Institute heads. Oh, it was harder to see in their portraits as Jon could hardly claim to be an expert on 19th century fashion but there was the same green and gold motif.

They were cousins, Jon suddenly Knew. Dorain Whitechurch had been Jonah Magnus’ cousin twice removed. Magnus had given him a job in the Institute when Whitechurch turned 19, and had always been rather kind to him especially after his parents died.

Jon scowled. He wished the Eye wouldn’t keep dropping information into his head. The ocean of knowledge was straining behind Jon’s mind and he had to firmly push against the door, straining to keep it closed. Being here was making it worse, in the Archives the pressure alleviated as he could read a statement and appease the damn thing.

…

Henry Farthington was unloading files. No, not files, Jon realised as he took in the room they were stood in, statements. They were all handwritten or typed up by a typewriter. Jon was slightly fascinated as he bent down to examine one that had fluttered away. Statement of Juliet Oakley regarding an old clock, all typed out neatly if more irregular than a computer could achieve. Jon could see where some of the keys had smudged the letters. There was something deeply interesting about seeing the Archive when it wasn’t his Archive. It seemed to be more orderly in this pre-Gertrude era.

Of course, Henry Farthington was doing everything in his efforts to destroy that order.

He was snatching any statement, every statement and tossing them into the building pile. Gas lamps set in the walls illuminated his work but an old oil lantern was resting on a nearby table, unlit. Its oil was spilling out. In fact, there seemed to be oil coating much of the floor and statements. Jon looked back at Farthington and saw the grim set of his face, jaw clenched and brow furrowed. He was going to burn down the Archive.

Jon felt an inexplicable burst of fear at the notion. While rationally he knew this wasn’t his Archive, and that this was the past and he knew that it didn’t burn but still panic clawed at him. He wanted to reach out and drag the statements to safety. A damn stupid urge for many reasons but still.

The door to Document Storage burst open and an older Dorian Whitechurch rushed in. Henry Farthington turned to look at him, a matching glare on his face. “You came faster than I thought you would.”

“Well, this rather stole my attention.” Whitechurch said. His voice was so steady, empty in a way that promised great anger. “I don’t know what poor Mr. Summerset did to anger you?”

“Your little Archivist?” Farthington spat. “As inhuman as you. I put him down like the attack dog he was.”

“Ironic that you would call someone else an attack dog.” Whitechurch bit out. “Tell me, when did you decide to turn on your trusted colleagues?”

“Trusted colleagues? Ha,” Farthington barked. “As though either you or Summerset have an ounce of respectability between you. Monsters, the both of you.”

“Mr. Farthington, that is a very serious allegation and I must confess to being at a loss—”

“I shot Summerset four times before he went down.” Farthington said. “Do not attempt to convince me I am mistaken. You both watch and watch and delight in all the pain others suffer under.”

“This is a rather sudden development.” Whitechurch said in that same still voice.

“It was that poor Oakley girl. I had to go back to visit her about her haunted clock and when I saw that pitiful young thing, she looked even worse than when she first came to your accursed Institute. Bags under her eyes so deep and black she couldn’t have slept for days, shaking like a leaf, face as pale as death. And she told me about the dreams she’d been having. Reliving her time trapped over and over while Mr. Summerset watches her.”

“I shall confess to allowing myself to turn a blind eye to your, ahem, extracurricular activities. It would be rather unfortunate if they came to light now.”

“I see nothing wrong with hunting down the monsters that prey on people. Monsters you gleefully enable.” Farthington spat. “Make it public knowledge, inform the entire world, I shall not regret my actions.”

“Monsters you say,” Whitechurch said quietly. “Are you really so certain that they were all monsters? And are you really so confident that you will survive my death? You are just as deeply tied to this Institute as Mr. Summerset was, and I am its beating heart. Stabbing the heart will simply cause the whole body to fall!”

“I—” Farthington started then paused. “No, I can’t say I am certain but I do know that you are and if killing you and burning down your fear factory is the death of me? Well, I think that’s a pretty acceptable end.”

Whitechurch sighed. “I have grown careless, I’ll acknowledge that. I suppose I ought to thank you for showing me just how complacent I’ve become.” Whitechurch pulled out a revolver and pointed it straight at Farthington.

The first shot tore through Farthington’s shoulder as the Hunter charged. Whitechurch realised his miscalculation immediately, giving him mere milliseconds to try to dodge Farthington. Farthington’s knife still cut into his chest, tearing cloth and flesh easily.

Whitechurch stumbled back, hand reaching up to the oozing gash. His other hand rose and he fired again and again. One of the two shots missed completely but the other hit Farthington in the chest.

Farthington stumbled but kept chasing forward. Whitechurch tried to block his approaching arm but one hand was still trying to staunch the bleeding and the other arm was too far away. Nonetheless, he tried to stop Farthington’s arm all the while moving to dodge. He failed and Farthington’s knife cut through Whitechurch’s throat and then continued upwards, slashing his face. Whitechurch threw himself backwards, crashing to the floor before the knife could reach his eyes.

Jon heard Whitechurch curse quietly, still able to talk even through the blood. Farthington was benched over, his gun wounds clearly slowing him down. But the Hunt seemed a lot more inclined to heal its avatar than the Eye as Whitechurch’s wounds seemed entirely mortal. Or perhaps it was just because it was a Hunter attacking him. Jon remembered how much a Hunter’s attacks hurt and how slowly they’d scarred.

Farthington stood back up, straightening, his unarmed hand clutching at his bleeding chest and slowly approached.

Jon saw real fear enter Whitechurch’s eyes. “Didn’t think you were so far along.” Whitechurch gurgled somewhere between anger and laughter. “But you’re in my domain.”

Farthington ignored Whitechurch’s words, intent on his death. Whitechurch’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling and calmly he said. “Ceaseless Watcher, let this Hunter know your sight.”

Jon almost fell over from the sheer force of the feeling that suddenly gripped the whole room. Jon was certain a whole crowd was all staring at him, seeing everything he did even if he wasn’t really there. He couldn’t imagine how potent the feeling must be for anyone who was actually present. This was the Eye staring. The power of the Institute’s patron concentrated into one small space. It was incredible.

Farthington stumbled and dropped to his knees. Whitechurch perilously pulled himself up from the ground, one hand clutching his bleeding throat and elbow pressed against his chest wound. With his other hand, Whitechurch picked up Farthington’s knife. “This is hardly ideal but you have forced my fucking hand.” He hissed, blood dribbling out of his mouth as he spoke.

Whitechurch held the knife up to Farthington’s face and then suddenly was stabbing it into the man’s eyes. Farthington screeched in pain and Whitechurch dropped the knife going in at the other man’s remaining eyes with his fingers, clawing and scraping. Farthington made to push Whitechurch away but Whitechurch kneed him in his still healing gun wound. Jon gagged. He wanted to look away. He didn’t want to see this. It was horrible. But Jon couldn’t look away, his eyes were almost magnetically pulled towards the horrific scene.

“Won’t be much longer for you now, Mr. Farthington.” Whitechurch hissed and then reached up to one of his own eyes and pulled it out. It popped out, whole and clean. The pupil still moved in Whitechurch’s hand as he reached towards Farthington. Jon didn’t know what exactly was going to happen when that eye touched Farthington, but he knew it would be nothing good. Farthington seemingly reached the same conclusion as Jon and tried to move away but the Watching grew even more intense, paralysing Jon with fear and freezing Farthington in place.

Whitechurch put his eye inside Farthington’s socket.

Immediately, Whitechurch collapsed. Farthington blinked twice, eyelids smoothly moving over his new green eye. The feeling of being watched faded as the Eye looked away. Farthington slowly crawled over to the unconscious Whitechurch and removed the remaining eye and popped it into his empty socket. He blinked hard and Jon was hysterically reminded of someone who’d just put a fresh contact in.

Once Farthington was suitably satisfied with his eyes, he examined Whietchurch’s body. “He’ll die without any assistance.” He muttered and left Whitechurch to bleed out.

Jon woke up and immediately sat bolt upright, breathing fast and heavy from fear. Which, he thought wryly, was probably the intended effect of these vision. But that had been sick. Jon had never been particularly squeamish about eyes but that didn’t mean he’d ever wanted to see a man’s eyes be carved out of his skull.

There was also something deeply chilling about the actual eye transfer. Jon just Knew that Henry Farthington was no more the instant those eyes went in. Possession felt almost too hokey to say but Maxwell Rayner was a known body-hopper, could it be that those eyes functioned like his black liquid? Did that mean that all the past Institute directors had just been body suits for the eyes? Jon thought back to the portraits he’d been looking at. He hadn’t been looking very hard at the eyes but as he pictured the paintings in his mind, didn’t they all seem to have piercing green eyes? All the way back to Jonah Magnus.

Jon thought about Elias’ bright eyes and shivered. He’d never actually met Elias Bouchard, just the thing piloting his body around, tormenting the archives. Jon felt a pang of deep despair for Elias Bouchard, the one he’d seen in his first dream. He was so perfectly average. So was James Wright and Richard Mendelson, Jon had chalked their changed behaviour up to just time and the general creeping corruption of avatarhood but no. They’d died and some entity had walked around wearing them. Jon was reminded horribly of how the Distortion seemed to puppet Michael and now Helen. What had made the Eye chose them? What qualities did they possess that made them ideal for possession?

Elias had seemingly been very lonely, possibly even Lonely, estranged from his family. Richard Mendelson’s had been separated from his family in Germany. James Wright’s possible girlfriend seemingly died from working in the Archives. They were all isolated, few people to miss them, few people to notice the change. Or was it even more basic than that? All three of them had similar builds and were, even to Jon’s rather oblivious eye, rather attractive. Was the _thing_ really so vain as to chose successors based on looks?

Henry Farthington, the seeming aberration in the trends, was easily explained as an aberration. He had never been intended to be the next Institute Head. He was a spanner in the works. His body only chosen out of necessity. If the body the eyes were in died, did the entity connected to the eyes die? Presumably, based on how it was willing to transfer.

What was it though? Was it a manifestation of the Eye? A monster like the Not-Them that had seemingly been created by a fear? Or was it more like Rayner, a human avatar prolonging its life by stealing others lives. At least, Jon thought grimly, this one didn’t take children. Whatever it was, it had seemingly been around a long time, perhaps even before the Institute’s founding seeing as it seemed to have attached itself to the Institute and its director. Had it been attracted to the Institute or had Jonah Magnus met an unfortunate end when encountering its last body and ended up as its latest suit?

Jon just didn’t know and it left him deeply unsettled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, so Jon now knows about the whole possession thing. Shame he didn't realise just who it was doing the possessing but he'll get there next chapter.
> 
> Anyway, Henry Farthington. Some details that I couldn't make natural in the fic. He was the Head of Artefact Storage at the time and was very dedicated to the whole 'protecting people by dealing with the monsters that hurt them'. If given enough time he probably would've turned into another Trevor Herbert or Julia Montauk but at the moment of his death, he's still pretty heroic. Hell, he even took down an Archivist.   
> As you can tell, Jonah had a bit of a sticky time trying to cover up what exactly went down in the Archives and ensuring that he ended up back in control of the Institute. But this was a hard lesson for Jonah, don't get cocky, have multiple fail safes. This whole incident is probably the most off-guard Jonah was caught until Gertrude almost burned down the Institute. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't have a proper, grand plot. It's just going to be Jon witnessing snippets of Jonah's victims because I got too invested in making them all up.  
> I appreciate any thoughts or comments you want to throw at me.


End file.
